


dig me up, lay me down and do your worst

by waferkya



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-14 12:20:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: Sprawled on the couch with a girl under each arm, Angel thinks he must’ve lost his fucking mind, because he can’t keep his eyes off of Coco, sitting at the club’s counter, downing shot after shot after shot of tequila straight from the bottle.set somewhere before episode 1x07. Coco gets drunk.





	dig me up, lay me down and do your worst

Sprawled on the couch with a girl under each arm, Angel thinks he must’ve lost his fucking mind, because he can’t keep his eyes off of Coco, sitting at the club’s counter, downing shot after shot after shot of tequila straight from the bottle, interspersed with the occasional drag off his fifth cigarette in the past half hour.

“What’s goin’ on with you, papi?” the girl on his right purrs into Angel’s ear, her accent thick and lips even thicker. She’s one of Vicki’s finest, Angel has had her before: her name’s Magdalene or Myriam or Micol or something else from the Old Testament. _What’s goin’ on with you_ , she wants to know, and how does Angel even begin to explain how much he’s worried about the utterly miserable curve of Coco’s shoulders? He can’t, it’s simple as that. Instead he smiles, and cups his hand around the perfect heart-shape of her face, to pull her in for a kiss. Nothing gentle about it, either: Angel nips at her bottom lip and her mouth falls open in half a second. Someone wolf-whistles and Angel flips them off without even opening his eyes.

They have guests, the brothers from the Northern Cali charter and some friends of theirs, so the club is packed with weed and pussy more than usual. Bishop wants to show off the good life on the border, and everyone’s happy, drinking and dancing and looking forward to fuck one or two or more of Vicki’s girls. Everyone, except Johnny fucking Coco Cruz, apparently.

Old Testament is shifting onto Angel’s lap, their mouths still fighting playfully with one another; the other girl must’ve been feeling neglected because now she’s pushing her whole body against Angel’s side, tits to knees, and she’s abso-fucking-lutely wonderful, firm and ready and begging for it. Angel feels real good about himself, one hand grabbing Old Testament’s ass, the other pulling on Horny Hannah’s hair to give him the chance of marking her neck with a bruising kiss—

“Oi! Watch it, cabrón,” Coco yells, his words all mashed up together and slurring, and in a second he’s off his stool, trying to scare off one of the Northern brothers, a mountain of a man, half-Norwegian with thick blonde hair, handlebar moustache and an amused grin on his face.

“Sorry, brother,” the man says, because he has a beer in each hand so he’s in a fucking great mood. But Coco must be feeling offended by the guy’s mirth, at least judging from the way his eyebrows are pinched down and his mouth turns into a thin, straight line. Angel doesn’t realize he’s stopped groping and kissing the girls until Old Testament puts her face right in front of him, demanding attention. She’s got this quizzical expression that makes her eyes cross a little.

“You okay, papito?” she asks, and yeah, Angel is definitely insane, because he gives her a tight, apologetic smile, and pushes her off his lap without another word. She yelps, outraged, but Angel doesn’t even turn around.

On the opposite side of the room, Coco is still yelling and the Viking’s amusement is slipping away fast. Angel meets Bishop’s eyes for a brief moment, and the message in Bishop’s raised eyebrows is more than clear: he doesn’t want problems, not tonight. Angel nods his agreement. He’s got this. Bishop nods back and turns away.

Gilly comes up to Angel’s side, ready to lend a hand, but Angel shakes his head. It’s okay.

Another second, and Angel is right next to Coco, putting an arm around his shoulders. Immediately Coco jerks away, but Angel tightens his grip; and when he realizes it’s Angel, Coco actually seems to relax a little, pushing back into his touch. Except he’s still furious at the Viking, for whatever reason.

“He’s got no right to be so fucking… big and… I don’t… just tell him sum’thing,” Coco mumbles, turning to Angel hard enough that his nose is pressed into the soft leather of his cut. Angel forces a smile on his face even when the only thing he wants to do is to slam Coco’s face into a bucket of ice water and just yell at him for a couple of hours.

“Sorry,” he tells the Viking, who looks at Coco for another second before giving Angel a quick nod.

“I don’t think he should drink that,” Viking says, pointing at the bottle of tequila Coco is still holding in his hand, _Jesus Christ_ , Angel thinks.

“Hey,” Coco starts to complain, but Angel takes the bottle from him so easily it’s almost funny. Except it isn’t, because how fucking drunk is he, if he can’t even put up a shred of a fight?

“It’s alright, carnal, it’s alright.” Angel slips his arm down around Coco’s waist, because he can feel his knees going weak, and takes on most of his pitiful weight; the fucker should really start eating more. “Come with me a second, yeah?”

“But don’t leave the tequila, Angel,” Coco whines, and Angel is very determined to ignore the way his stomach just flopped because Coco, in all his drunkennes, let Angel’s name slip off his tongue in Spanish, opening his mouth around the a, savouring the fricative g rolling deep and warm on his palate, the way it’s supposed to.

Angel drags Coco toward the back of the club, on the opposite side of Church, where the guest rooms are. Coco stumbles every other step and Angel is so very tempted to just pick him up and carry him over his shoulder. But that would give the Northern charter something to laugh about for six hundred years, and Angel isn’t about to do that to Coco, no matter how obnoxious he is.

The first three rooms are taken, and none of the occupants thought about locking the fucking door. Coco is giggling in his ear, trying to sweet-talk Angel into giving up the bottle of tequila Coco didn’t even realize he never took.

Angel has seen enough bare asses and hairy backs for tonight, so he makes it all the way to the end of the hallway, last room on the right: he knocks loudly, waits a second or two, and opens the door. The room is empty; it still smells faintly like floor soap. Nobody ever makes it so far up the hallway.

“Sit down a sec,” Angel tells Coco, dropping him off on the bed, and Coco flops backwards, arms thrown out, even as he says:

“I don’t neeeeeed to sit dooownnn.”

Angel shuts the door, then he walks up to the window and pulls the thick curtains closed. Coco’ll thank him in the morning; or not, because it’s likely he won’t remember a single thing about tonight. Angel turns around. Coco is perfectly still and, if it weren’t for his very much open eyes, it could easily look like he’s asleep. Instead, he’s staring at the ceiling like he can’t quite believe it’s there. And he’s biting his lower lip, sharp teeth just going to town on it, and he’ll be tasting blood in no time.

With a heavy sigh, Angel sits on the opposite side of the bed and leans back, his head next to the Coco’s.

“What the fuck’s going on with you, carnal,” Angel says, without turning around.

Coco doesn’t answer. Instead, he bolts up and off the bed, all but running to the bathroom. Angel sighs. He listens to Coco getting sick, and he can just hope the fucker made it all the way to the toilet. When the vomiting turns to simple, painful-sounding dry heaving, Angel gets up and walks into the bathroom. Coco pays him the courtesy of flushing when he hears him coming in, so maybe he’s sobering up. Angel grabs a plastic cup from a cabinet and fills it with water, then he sits on the edge of the tub next to Coco and gently tips his head back.

“Hey,” Angel says, trying to contain the small smile that’s tugging at the corners of his mouth. Coco’s hand is shaking but he takes the cup and downs the water; he washes his mouth with the first gulp, then spits it down the toilet. He drinks the rest, and zones out of a second. Angel, despite his name, is only human: he runs his fingers through Coco’s sweaty hair, pulling one longer lock back and behind his ear. It’s entirely friendly, as a gesture. Right.

“Thanks,” Coco says, his voice rough, and he can’t quite look Angel in the eyes.

“Feelin’ better?”

“I guess, yeah,” Coco shrugs, but he doesn’t even try getting up. He’s staring at the empty cup in his hands. Angel sighs, takes the cup and goes to fill it again. Coco sounds unbelievably ashamed when he says again, “Thank you.”

“Fuck you, cariño, you don’t thank me for getting you water,” Angel says, and Coco looks surprised for a second. Then, he cracks a wonderful grin.

“Cariño, huh?” he says, and his eyes flit all over Angel’s face, to eventually settle on his mouth. Angel licks his lips like a bad habit and Coco follows the quick movement of his tongue with a dedication he never grants to anything else.

Angel feels heat raise to his cheeks. “Coco—” he begins, and it’s a warning, but Coco doesn’t listen, for once he doesn’t: instead, he gets up on wobbly knees and walks up to Angel, leans in with his elbows on Angel’s shoulders. Angel’s mouth curls up in a smile, and he puts his hands on Coco’s hips, half to keep him upright and half to keep him close.

“Mmh-hn, I like that,” Coco says, his voice low and a little rough. The tip of his nose brushes against Angel’s, tentative. Angel doesn’t pull back.

“I’m not doing anything with you when you’re like this, nene.”

“Whaaat?” Coco’s voice is too high a couple of octaves, and he pulls at Angel’s earlobes. “I’m fine, do I look not fine?”

Angel actually laughs. “You look lovely.”

“You can bet your ass.”

“Let’s go to bed.”

Coco’s smile is so bright and lopsided and wonderful that it could light up the entire neighborhood. “Now you’re talking.”

When Angel stands up, Coco is so much up in his space, it’s impossible to keep his hands to himself. He pulls him in, crushes their mouths together wet and open and dirty, and the part he enjoys the most are the tiny, breathless sounds that Coco makes, shameless and hungry.

Angel pushes him into the room, until Coco’s knees hit the bed. Legs tangled, they fall onto the mattress. Angel scoots up, and Coco follows, uncoordinated and grinning like a maniac. Angel puts a hand around his head, brushing his hair back, and Coco comes this close to fucking purring. Closes his eyes, bares his throat. He’s a mess, and a masterpiece.

“What’s going on with you?” Angel asks again, and then, when Coco looks displeased at the question, he adds: “Talk to me, cariño.”

The pet name does the trick—it always does. Coco hides his face against Angel’s neck and mumbles, “You know I hate to see the girls with you.”

Angel kisses the side of his head. “Don’t lie to me. I see you, Coco. You haven’t been alright long before the girls even started getting dressed for tonight.”

Coco stays silent for so long that Angel is half-convinced he fell asleep; he keeps stroking his hair nonetheless, because he likes it, it’s soothing. But eventually, he hears him say:

“It’s this shit with Celia, I guess. An’ Leti, I… I don’t know. My head don’t feel right. I think I’ll do something very stupid.”

“Like getting drunk and embarrass yourself in front of the whole Cali charter?” Angel teases, with a small smile. Coco squirms up and closer to his body, curling into the curve of his hip.

“You’re so fucking funny, Angel,” Coco says, and Angel can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“I love how you say my name when you’re drunk.”

“Mmh-hm,” Coco says, and yeah, now he’s definitely falling asleep. “Love you, peinabombillas.”

Angel’s heart could be marching troops into war with the way it’s beating so stupidly hard right in the middle of his throat. His arm is dying squished under Coco’s body, and tomorrow morning he’s going to regret sleeping in his jeans and his cut, but for now, he reaches over the bedside table, turns off the light, and curls right back into Coco.

He’s finally gone mad, and he’s never felt better.  


**Author's Note:**

> i need to yell to someone about the fact that in episode 1x09 Angel said “mi carnal” to Ez with such intensity and heartbrokenness, like being a carnal is the most precious and important and sacred thing, and it was a great moment of brotherhood until i remembered that WAY BACK IN THE PILOT Coco called Angel ‘carnal’ and i’m dead now okay, i’m convinced that Sutter is actually going to canonically gift me (and all of us) with this beautiful romance to make up for all the pain he caused with Sons. i’m delusional.
> 
> "peinabombillas" literally means "person who combs lightbulbs", and it's the best, most nonsensical and funny insult i've ever heard. i HAD to use it.


End file.
